A Mourner's Drink
by The Brass Clock
Summary: Greg Lestrade didn't attend the funeral; but he did protect it.


**Soooo somebody requested/recommended I write a Lestrade-centric fic post-Reichenbach annnnd well I did it!**

**Here it is~ I hope I got him down, Lestrade is so fucking great of a character.**

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><p>If Greg Lestrade knew that he had been counted as one of Sherlock's closest friends, that he had been close to death himself as Sherlock plunged off the roof of St. Bart's, maybe he would have visited the grave sooner.<p>

As it was, he did not exactly go to the funeral. He did not feel as if he deserved or was allowed to be there. Some of the officers did, Molly of course, a few Doctor's from the hospital. Watson was there, of course, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford. A surprising amount of people for a man who Donovan and Anderson claimed to have no friends.

There had been no viewing, just the journey from the funeral home to the graveyard and a procession of people dressed in black.

Greg Lestrade did not attend the funeral, but he did watch the proceedings from the gated entrance to the cemetery.

He could not, for the life of him, stop watching John Watson in his position with the pallbearers, jacket slick with rain as the casket was lowered towards the ditch that had been dug. Watched Molly with her arm around Mrs. Hudson's shoulder as the two women comforted each other, watched Mycroft Holmes standing stoic and stony-faced among the congregation.

He felt ill. He'd doubted Sherlock, and look where it bloody led? The papers and news were drenched in slander and the cursing of Sherlock Holmes' name- the liar, the fraud, the criminal. He did not attend nor participate in the funeral because he'd doubted, he'd doubted a man he had put his trust in numerous times, and had not been let down. Greg was nothing if not an honorable man, and in listening to Donovan, in listening to the stupid whispers of doubt, had helped pave the way to a great man's death.

So, no, Greg Lestrade didn't attend the funeral, but he did protect it.

All around the cemetery's cobblestone wall were reporters, news channel cameras and people begging for a photograph or interview with one of the mourners. All of them searching for the supposed truth.

Greg Lestrade and his team were the shield, they stood between the cemetary and the media and they held them back, kept them as far away as possible and made sure none could slip through. So that while Mrs. Hudson wept into Molly Hooper's shoulder, and John Watson stood tall and military, and a platoon of others paid their respects, they could do so in peace.

He himself just stood and watched.

It wasn't until some days later, when things had settled a touch, did he return with a bottle of whiskey and his hands in his coat pockets.

He stood in front of the gleaming black stone, beaded with droplets from the night's rain, and wondered if he should say something.

Sherlock would tell him to shut up, probably, but Sherlock wasn't here.

He'd met Sherlock about five years ago. He hadn't been DI then, but was fast on his way to getting the position. Sherlock Holmes got brought in on drug charges one day, thinner then and with a nervous shake to his fingers and constantly snapping at people and telling them their darkest secrets just because they looked at him.

He'd been downright scary, is what he'd been.

Sherlock had actually made the THEN DI cry, spewing every little detail he could figure out about the man, from the affairs he'd had in the last month, to his own drug habit he was nursing. (It occurred to Lestrade, three weeks later when the DI retired and he got the job, he probably should have thanked Holmes for paving the way into his current employment.) Despite the fact that Sherlock was jonesing and in handcuffs, Greg had seen exactly what the man could do.

So before Mycroft Holmes had swept into the building to bail out his younger sibling- not that Lestrade had known that was going to happen at the time- he gave the slightly acerbic young man an offer.

If he cleaned up his act, if he quit the drugs, he'd let him help out on cases.

Sherlock had got a glimmer in those sunken, drug-addled eyes, and Lestrade had, had no idea in a few short months time, it would evolve from Lestrade helping out a guy squandering his talents, to Lestrade relying on Sherlock when he could not crack the case. He had replaced Heroin with solving crimes and mysteries and bullying the forensics team into letting him take home fingers and inevitably, entire heads. Replaced the drugs with nicotine patches and making fun of Anderson's intelligence.

He'd said once, to John Watson, that if they were lucky Sherlock Holmes could be a good man.

He'd always been a great one, and Lestrade had been pretty sure that Watson had been paving the way for Sherlock to become a good one... if not a very good one. He'd been learning tact, had shown legitimate affection for human beings, had shown... emotion of all things. Real emotion, not the falsified tears he sent towards mourners in order to gather information.

Greg Lestrade stood at Sherlock Holmes' grave, and thought about how he'd known the man five years, relied on him, trusted him, thought of him as an incredibly irksome but still somehow morbidly lovable little brother. (Or maybe it was more like cousin?)

Nevertheless, they'd had a kind of connection.

And Greg had let the connection weaken and falter with doubt and uncertainty.

Sherlock had been telling him for years not to listen to a word Donovan or Anderson said, and he had gone and listened, let the doubt be planted in his skull.

Grimacing, he popped the top off the whiskey and took a swig, dumping some out on Sherlock's grave as an afterthought.

_("Whiskey's a mourner's drink, Greggy, that's why Daddy put it on Gran's plot." _he could hear his mother speaking at the back of his head._)_

The last thing he'd done, the last time he'd seen Sherlock Holmes, he'd been arresting him, proving his doubt.

How could he ever forgive himself for doing that? For condemning an innocent man? He'd dedicated his life to making sure it was the innocent who were unharmed and here he was, standing at his friend's grave. He'd had a hand in the events, he may not have been the catalyst or the direct cause, but he'd played his part.

And here he was.

He took another swig of the whiskey, stoppered it, and tucked it snugly at the base of the gravestone. He didn't know if Sherlock was a drinker or not, but it felt right to leave it there for some reason. He ran his hands over his face and heaved out a sigh that he felt could shake the ground.

"Know you'd say this was dumb," he muttered. "Talking to a lump of granite or whatever stone you've got here. But if I don't say it it'll haunt me- guess I'm pretty selfish then, aren't I?"

There was no response but Greg didn't expect one.

"Anyway, for the record; Sorry. I am sorry, about doubting you. Known you long enough now, you don't doubt Sherlock Holmes, but I did. Guess I learned the hard way, didn't I, mate? Shit."

He stood for another few moments, then added a final message to his apology.

"Hope wherever you are, wherever you ended up, you've got plenty of really ridiculous cases to solve, alright? Give the devil a run for his money, won't you? Hell, you'd do it even if I didn't say it, probably go right on off and tell Lucifer what he had for lunch three weeks ago."

The thought of Sherlock Holmes facing off with the devil gave him an oddly satisfied feeling, like somewhere in the depths of Hell Holmes was having the time of his... life.

Quietly, Greg Lestrade turned on his heel and walked out of the cemetery, a little slower than before.

Some yards away, from behind the statue of an Angel, a tall, slender figure in a hood and long black coat slithered from it's hiding spot, and approached the grave.

It stooped, took the bottle, and disappeared from the graveyard, leaving only the echoing swish of a long overcoat.


End file.
